The feeling that time was passing utterly
disappeared; weeks, months, and years lay waiting somewhere near, but
could be left or taken, used or not used, as they pleased. To take a
week and use it was like picking a flower that looked much prettier
growing sweetly in the sunny earth. Why pick it? It came to an end
that way! The minutes, the hours and days, morning, noon and night as
well, the very seasons too, offered themselves, and--vanished. They
did not come and go, they were just "there"; and to steal into one or
other of them at will was like stealing into one mood after another as
the heart decreed. They were mere counters in the gorgeous and
unending game. They helped to hide the mysterious Stranger who was
evidently in the centre round which all life lay grouped so
marvellously. They hid and covered him as moods hide and cover the
heart that wears them--temporarily. Uncle Felix and the children used
them somewhat in this way, it seems, for while they looked and hunted
in and out among them, any minute, day or season was recoverable at
will. They did not pass away. It was the seekers who passed through
them.
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